


John and Dave: Get Together

by grumpyvantas



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bad Puns, Closet Jokes, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mild Smut, Nic Cage, THE GAYS - Freeform, The Pizza Man
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 13:30:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 8,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4523862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpyvantas/pseuds/grumpyvantas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a pizza man. Dave lives with his bro. Shenanigans and a gay singularity ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John: Deliver pizza

"Hello! You've reached Papa John's, and this is John!"  
"Order for delivery? 217 Gerome St, 15C."  
"Okay, what would you like?"  
"4 large pizzas; one with sausage, one with vegetables, and two with pineapple."  
"Okay, that's gonna be $42.07!"  
"'Kay, I'll have it ready at the door. Love you, bye."  
"..."  
"Oh my God, did I just say, 'love you'?"  
"I'm flattered, but I hope you don't think your declaration of love will get you free pizza."

Your name is John Egbert, and you deliver pizza. Not, like, all the time. During the school year, you go to college at University of Washington and live with your Dad out of convenience. But eventually it gets to be a little too much—the cake, the pranks, the Betty Crocker, the cake, the notes, the cake, the Coddlebrand strifing—and did you mention the overabundance of baked goods? So currently, you're spending the summer away from the pipe-brandishing street jester-slash-boring businessman you call a guardian.

You're not quite sure how you ended up in Texas, of all places. Your father mentioned in passing a distant relation that had a spare room in Houston, and you jumped on the opportunity. What followed after was a bit of a blur. You're still finding stern fatherly notes taped to various personal effects.

And now you’re here, delivering pizza in Houston, Texas. Sometimes it's hard to keep your oversized chompers out of the merchandise. The buckteeth have a mind of their own, you swear. But you just think about how sad the poor people who ordered the pizza would be if they found it all eaten up. It's a pretty vanilla motivation, but it usually works. Besides, you need the money. Boy’s gotta eat.

There's this one apartment you get a lot of orders from. Apartment 15C, 217 Gerome St. You have mixed feelings about the residents of this particular abode. On one hand, they always tip well and sometimes give you a bag of half-eaten Cheetos as a "bonus prize." But on the other hand, they sometimes make you deliver to the roof of the building and there's no elevator all the way up there. Stairs, bro. Shoulda warned you about them.

Also, they have an alarming number of creepy-ass puppets. There's this one doll in particular that the older of the two strange inhabitants (brothers, perhaps? A father/son duo like your father and yourself? Who knows!) often flashsteps around quickly to make it seem as though the puppet is paying for and accepting the pizza. It's the most bizarre sight you've ever seen and easily one of the most terrifying. You'd happily admit (and have, on many occasions) that you're scared to all shit's end of what you're constantly reminded is named "Li'l Cal, not 'freaky chattering dude with a dumb hat.' Get your shit together, pizza man."

These two intrigue you nonetheless. There's one that seems to be around your age and one that's probably in his late thirties or early forties. They both have these triangular anime shades and often they wield some piece of shit Japanese swords ("They're called katanas, dumbass"). The younger one has a record logo on his shirt ("to represent my ill beats") and the older one always wears this cheesy giant hat.

You don't get them at all. Often they rap at you or throw "smuppets" at you as you exit. They claim to be "masters of irony," which you think is pretty lame. But each to his own, you guess? Even if their own includes puppet Mr. T's and giant busts of Snoop Dogg.

Not to mention, you got off to a strange start. Towards the beginning of summer, you got a call from them for delivery, and as you were signing off, the orderer offered you a quick "love you!" He assured you that it was an accident, and that he "didn't even know how that happened, I never say I love you to Bro or talk on the phone much at all for that matter." You understand, of course (you also think that if this dude was Liv Tyler or something, it'd be a typical start to a Dane Cook rom-com. You don't really like the genre all that much, though. And besides, no homo).

Today is one such time when you have to deliver to these two. They've ordered 10 large pizzas. You've stopped being surprised by them at this point, but you still wonder where they put it all. They certainly can't eat all of that, can they? Upon delivery, you pose this question to the younger one.

"We feed it to the smuppets. Even a plush rump's gotta eat," he replies with a straight face (as always). You secretly think that he'd look better with aviators than those pointy anime shades he's wearing now.

Apparently not so secretly, actually, since you tell him this as well.

"What, like the ones Ben Stiller's got in that one movie? Fuck yeah, I'd rock those. ...Ironically, of course," he mumbles. Distantly, you wonder why he speaks so quietly before rolling your eyes at him.

He snorts and gives you a crumpled hundred dollar bill ("Keep the change") in exchange for the pizza, popped straight out of your sylladex. One hundred is, of course, about the amount due, but you didn't expect to ever actually see a bill that big. As your baby blues widen at the sight of it, he snaps his fingers like he's just remembered something. "Your tip! Here."

He tosses an unopened bag of Cheetos. Before you can shoot him a dirty look, he says, "trust me," so you just sort of leave in befuddlement.

Once you reach the van with the Papa John's logo emblazoned on the side, you pop open the Cheetos bag. You really hope they haven't stuffed a smuppet in there. It wouldn't be the first time you'd been pranked by them, which you think is a little out of line; after all, you're the _pranking master_! But this time you don't find another soft, bulbous bottom kind of jutting out and impudent or whatever. Good thing too, because you think you'd have done a fucking acrobatic pirouette off the handle.

No, what you find instead is a bunch of wadded up dollar bills of varying values. There's roughly a shitton of them. Upon closer examination, they appear to all be 50- and 100-dollar bills. _Geez, how much money is this?!!_ , you think. You find one single Cheeto at the bottom of the bag, surrounded by cash. You look up at the apartment building above you, and you spot a gleam winking at you from a pair of scalene triangles. Ah, yes.

You think immediately that you have to go up and return the money. You can't accept that much of a tip! But just as the thought crosses your mind, a smuppet flies down (attached to a mini parachute, no less. Where do they find these things?) to where you stand with a note tacked on. "Take the goddamn cash, Egbert," it reads. You suppose you don't have much of a choice but to take the goddamn cash. You feel guilty, but you're pretty sure they're fuckin’ loaded. So you just. Sort of reach in. And. And take the money. You captchalogue the smuppet while you're at it. It could be useful in a prank, eventually. Your gambit's been getting a little low, and that needs to be remedied.

It's not until later that you wonder how they know your last name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's gonna be an awful lot of short chapters, the way I decided to format this. I have probably more than half of the story written out so I'll put a few chapters up today and update every day or two while I work on finishing the story.


	2. Dave: Order Pizza

Your name is Dave Strider, and you and your Bro eat a lot of pizza. Not, like, all the time. You eat other takeout too. Chinese and shit. But recently you've been eating an overabundance of pizza. You and your Bro had argued once about the differing irony levels of various pizzas (you suspect that pineapple may be over 9000), so you ordered a few from Papa John's. You embarrassingly accidentally confessed your love to a stranger on the phone, and in doing so met a funny bucktoothed delivery guy. You honestly don't know where the "love you" came from. It's not a habit to tag "love you" on to the end of your phone conversations. You don't do that shit. Besides, how often do you even talk on the phone?

Anyway, after tasting the few you'd tried that time, Bro said that you couldn't measure irony of only some pizzas and not try the others. So over a few months, you two order and eat a ridiculous amount of pizza.

Bro is crazy loaded from his smuppet ventures and, more recently, his delve into robotics, so you can afford all of the pizza easily.

Most of the delivery-people you get suck. There's this girl that always tries to touch your shades or your sword. There's a guy who tries to rap with you but is just embarrassingly bad. And worst of all, there's this one douchebag that actually likes smuppets. Ugh.

However, even after the embarrassing start, there's that one kid, big teeth and all, who you kinda think is funny. He's so into action movies that it’s gotta either be the most ironic or the most pathetic thing you’ve ever seen. And he tries to prank you sometimes. That's hilarious. _And_ he's as uncomfortable around Li'l Cal as you... (but you'd never tell Bro that the little man's unblinking eyes and chattering jaw creep you out. He'd never let you hear the end of it.)

Bored one day, you find yourself at the Papa John's website. You find a link reading, "Local Branches," follow it to, "Houston Chapter, W Vagabond Street," and finally click on, "Meet the Employees!" You scroll down the page, seeing some of the weirdos that have delivered to you before, before finding your fave—buckteeth, dork glasses and everything—next to the words, "Hi! I'm John Egbert. I'm a college student up north, but I'm here during the summer." It then listed his work hours.

This seems like an incredibly weird thing to have on a company website. You feel like so much information about pizza deliverers is unnecessary and potentially dangerous for the wellbeing of the deliverypeople.

But also, it lets you know when to order pizza and not get the weird smuppet-lover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters this short makes me think I should always post at least two at a time.
> 
> As it is, I may post four today.
> 
> Also, I'm making up this shit about Papa John's lax security measures pertaining to pizza deliverers. Sorry Papa John's.


	3. John: Shit, Let's Be Santa

Your name is John Egbert, and Christmas is coming up. You're back in Washington, and you're currently on your dinosaur of a computer shopping for presents for your friends. You buy a "Horrorterrors Coloring Book for the Darktistically Inclined" for your East Coast friend. She's really into that kind of stuff. You're not sure how anyone can make money producing all this morbid tentacle merch, but you’ve learned not to question it too much. For your cousin studying abroad in some random island in the middle of the Pacific, you order a bunch of packets of pumpkin seeds.

You check your virtual shopping cart before continuing… yep, tentacle book for Rose, squiddle DVD for Jade... What do you mean, pumpkin seeds? You are quite sure there were no pumpkin seeds in your shopping cart, and never will be. Quite frankly, you find the notion absurd.

You continue shopping.

After picking out an apron for your sister Jane and a new tie for Dad, you realize that you don't have very many close friends. Upon checking your bank account, you see your balance is still at approximately hella money. You cashed all of those big bills a while back, and now you're doing really well, cash-wise. Especially for a college kid. Maybe you should put it all in a savings account…

You scroll through eBay a while, finding the weirdest things for sale. As you skim the most popular items, one choice piece catches your eye. It's pretty pricey, but you can swing it easy. So there'll be a little less in your savings account, big deal. You bid the automatic sale price and type in your mailing address. You have a very specific vision on how to wrap this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going somewhere with this, I swear!


	4. Dave: It Is Like Fucking Christmas up in Here

Your name is Dave Strider, and you and your Bro have just received some very ironic Christmas gifts. You celebrate Christmas itself ironically, of course. The two of you decorated a bust of Game Bro with multicolored lights and strings of Doritos. The holidays are wonderful.

From your increasingly sardonic cousin in New York, you got a knitted red and purple cleaning rag and a bottle of Clorox, "To clean up your presumably unsanitary 'sick beats'." From your chipper friend studying somewhere in the middle of the ocean, you received a garden trowel and some fertilizer, "to tend to your 'ill beets' hehe! :D" You swear, she has got to stop talking to Lalonde. They probably coordinated this.  
Your bro got a bunch of weird shit from his weird friends. You note: a stuffed pony/cat hybrid thing (could it be a brony thing?), a 3-D _Avatar_ DVD, and an photo album full of pictures of Ron Swanson and various horses.

But what stood out the most was a box addressed to "Li'l Cal" with a Washington state return address.

Upon opening it, the two of you found a smuppet, elaborately embroidered with tons of anime shit ("Sugoi!” “Kawaii!” “Notice me, senpai," and a surprisingly detailed portrait of Sailor Moon) and a note.  
"weird puppet robot dude: here's a customized smuppet. merry christmas!  
the somewhat less puppet-y guy who is always mumbling: look inside.  
hehehehe  
P.S. thanks for the tip!!! :o"

You figure you kind of mumble, and you're definitely "less puppet-y." So the latter probably refers to you. Confused by the note's instructions, you shoot a look at your Bro. Inside...? Oh. Oh shit. Shit, it means inside the smuppet. Bro stares at you expectantly, but no way are you reaching in there. No.

"Dave...?" he smirks. "Ain't'cha gonna get your present?" You sometimes wonder how you yourself didn't end up with much of a Texas accent, as opposed to your Bro's fairly prevalent one.

You turn to the smuppet and make a face before tentatively taking it. You wonder if you can just... just sort of reach in there... and…

And it's a pair of shades? Bro rifles around in the packing peanuts (there's a single Cheeto mixed in there) until he finds a Certificate of Authenticity declaring that these have, indeed, touched Ben Stiller's weird, sort of gaunt face at one point.

You recall a conversation with a buck-toothed pizza delivery guy. Josh Egg, or something like that. Shit, looks like this guy has one-upped you. And you were doing so well after the Cheeto cash bag. Damn.

You put on the sunglasses for purely ironic purposes. Or at least, that's what you tell Bro. You actually kind of like them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not from Houston and I don't know how to convey the accent in text! Sorry if it's particularly heinous; I'm from California and have encountered nary a Texan in my life. Don't worry, it only gets worse in later chapters!


	5. John: Put the Bunny Back in the Box

Your name is John Egbert, and you've very recently finished your third year in college. The arrangements for Houston have been made, and you're just bidding adieu to your foggy-eyed father. As you check your room one last time to make sure you haven't forgotten anything, you hear rustling from where your luggage and Dad are waiting. You suspect that he's adding a few final notes to your stuff.

In less than a week you're back at Papa John's. You find a crumpled, blurred note in your jean pocket: "SON. IF ----------------- WASHING MACHINE. ----------------- MAN. -------- PROUD ----------------- DAD." You guess it got pretty unreadable after you put it through the laundry. But maybe that was the point?

You go out on a couple deliveries and are delighted to find that you're delivering to 217 Gerome. Your faves.

However, you are a little cautious while knocking on the door of the apartment.  
You're greeted by Ben Stiller's sunglasses and a suppressed smirk.

“Hey.”

You smile a little. “‘Sup.”

"Thanks for the X-mas loot, man. Mad irony props.”

You’re not quite sure how to reply, so you just chuckle.

From inside the apartment, you hear a drawling voice saying, “Dave, have we got a guest? Y’ain’t gonna just leave him out there, are you? Invite him in!”

Befuddled and a little alarmed, you look to… Dave? for an explanation. He flashes you a quick shit eating grin before explaining. “Bro really liked your present, too, so he suggested we return the favor.”

Before you can really step inside, you’re handed an empty red box. Before you can ask, “Bro” (????) tosses something worn and, to be honest, a little grimy to Dave, who then passes it to you.

“You mentioned how much you like Nic Cage and Con Air? I gotta say, that’s either incredibly ironic or just a little sad. Either way,” he hands you the object, which you can now see is the very same bunny from one of your favorite movies of all time. As you gape at him, he just raises his eyebrows. “Well?” he asks. “Aren’t you gonna put the bunny back in the box?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> refrance secured?


	6. Dave: Keep It Real

Your name is Dave Strider, and you’ve just made your favorite pizza man very happy. Your appreciation for this bucktoothed wonder has officially become unironic. Bro seems to have noticed. His eyebrows have slowly been creeping over his shades throughout your interaction with Mr. John Egbert. 

And you lied to John. The bunny was your idea, not Bro’s. But at the last second you chickened out and pinned it on your insanely cool older brother. He didn’t give a fuck. He rarely does. However, his eyebrows started their ascent there, and they haven’t stopped yet. It is RIDICULOUS what kind of air these things are getting. Dude come get the ruler; check this out.

But seriously, John starts having a moment with the bunny and as cute-slash-dorky as he is, you still feel like you shouldn’t infringe too much on it. So you sidle over to your Bro where his brows are inching ever higher. They’re making you a little uncomfortable. Even Li’l Cal is giving you a weird look (when doesn’t he, though?). You don’t say anything to Bro, and he says nothing back. He is utterly expressionless but for his eyebrows. Fucking inscrutable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is like, 3 paragraphs, so I'll add an extra chapter for today after this one.
> 
> Dave's getting awful fond of John...


	7. Bro: Be Inscrutable

Your name is Bro Strider, and you’ve finally gotten used to having someone other than Dave (and Li’l Cal) around the house all the time. When it had just been the two (three) of you, it had been peaceful. Dave muttered and shuffled his feet around the house, but he was quiet about it, generally speaking (Li’l Cal wasn’t much one for talking, either). 

But this Egbert kid is something else. After all of the dumb stunts he and Dave played with the presents, John started coming to the apartment more and more often. You marvel at the ease with which he gets along with Dave. Kid’s never had many friends, but he and this John guy really clicked. All throughout the summer you can’t find an escape from the buckteeth and the incessant chattering. He talks so much.

He actually reminds you of a friend of yours. An awful lot, actually.

You find yourself pondering that the next time you’re roped into watching a Matthew McConaughey film.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha ok these have been 3 very short chapters but I promise the next ones are much longer! I'll update tomorrow with one/two chapters depending on how long they end up being.


	8. John: Admire Your Best Friend's Cute Butt

Your name is John Egbert, and you _actually have a best friend!_ Of course, you’ve had friends before. You made friends in school and at points, got pretty close to some of them. But you always grew apart eventually. And as always, you have your internet friend Rose and your cousins Jade and Jake. They’re great to talk to and have helped you through any issues you've had in the past. Sometimes you even chat with your sister’s friend Roxy, who is nice, if older and a little flirty.

But now you have Dave. And you guys are total assholes to each other. You finally get what having a best friend is like!

And so what if you think your best friend kinda has a cute butt? That’s normal. You mean, that’s gotta be a thing, right? People do that, and it totally doesn’t mean anything homosexual. Ha ha ha because you definitely aren’t that. 

But that’s beside the point.

You’ve started to spend so much time at the Striders’ apartment that you suspect that Bro is getting a little tired of you. You share your suspicions with Dave, but he waves you off. “No, man. He doesn’t give a shit. He might try to strife with you, but that’s friendly. Mostly. Don’t worry about it, though.”

So you don’t worry about it and instead go back to concentrating on the Tony Hawkes video game the two of you are playing. It was not meant for two players, and Bro had to hack the game to allow for it. As a result, you are currently playing as a bag of Doritos. Gotta keep it real, man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some exclusive 100% canon interaction yep yep not OOC at all or anything
> 
> //sarcasm
> 
> "dave u kinda have a cute butt."  
> "sorry john, i had my earbuds in. did you say i have a cute butt?"  
> "cute butt? haha i didnt say that i said, uh, you have a cube butt...?"  
> "i s2g john egbert if you make one more parks and rec reference to jerry gergich... smh john im not jerry if anything im like, fucking, jean ralphio. he knows what hes doing"  
> "wtf dave you WANT to be jean ralphio?? haha he SO does not know what hes doing"  
> "shut up john hes a good rapper and someone i aspire to be"  
> "youre definitely playing me right now, asshole. this is like, some weird ironic jean ralphio saperstein thing youre doing right now you dont actually think this."  
> "dont diss my heroes john you dont know what youre talking about"


	9. Dave: Fall for Your Best Friend

Your name is Dave Strider, and you may be in love with your best friend/pizza delivery guy. You swear, it was an accident. You’ve always thought of him as kind of cute, but you’ve more recently found yourself head over heels. Full homo. (Well, full something. You can't find it in yourself to explore the nuances of romanticism and sexuality. You've settled on "people are hot and that's that").

You think maybe he likes you, too? You mean, you don't even know if he's straight or what, but he seems like he's interested. He has this way of flashing his baby blue eyes at you with a smirk that could only be construed as incredibly flirty. Sometimes when you make him laugh hard enough you're graced with a clap on the shoulder or a slap on the knee. Actually, scratch that. He's pretty darn physical, like, all the time. You'll be watching a terrible movie or playing Mario Kart and he ends up, like, waaaaay too close to you. You're not complaining, but it does make a guy wonder.

You like him so much. Even if you're not doing anything together, just sitting around at your house or on Pesterchum, you like being with him and talking to him. It’s gotten to the point that you order pizzas during his work hours just so you can see him. You tell him that it’s because, “being this cool is hard work, makes a dude hungry for a slice,” but in reality, you just miss his dumb smile. And his dumb insults. And his dumb asshole face. Geez have you fallen for him.

You’re in too deep. With an “ahlly yoop,” John Egbert has SLAM-DUNKed himself into your heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is like the shortest chapter yet maybe im very sorry but hey!!! development!!! of the gays!!!
> 
> HEY but tomorrows updates are the best I promise you all you will be very happy with tomorrow's sooooo yeah just hang on and trust me it'll be GAY. I mean what, I meant GREAT. No, I didn't, I meant gay. But it'll be both of those things.


	10. John: Get Drunk

Your name is John Egbert, and you know what? Maybe you are a bit of a homosexual. Maybe you like Dave Strider a little too much for your own good.

You don’t want to delude yourself into thinking that there may be something there, but it’s getting hard not to. There is an unacknowledged tension between the two of you that continues to build with every passing day.

Sometimes you try to test the waters. Laugh a little longer than necessary. Stretch, exposing your (admittedly, a bit tubby) belly more often than you should. Bite your lip in concentration while playing Call of Duty (although you do that anyway). And sometimes you see reciprocation in Dave. He’s even shot you a few rare grins (some reluctant, some offered up in a moment of utter openness), and you savor them immensely.

Of course, sometimes, he turns away. Sometimes, his eyes close off and the shades he dons seem more like a barrier than an accessory (ironic or otherwise). Sometimes you try to flirt and hit a brick wall.

Until one day you both get drunk. Bro’s out for the night, and Dave had no trouble securing some vodka (stashed in a cabinet for when their cousin comes to visit). The two of you decide to try a drinking game (“take a shot every time something dumb happens in this pos mcconahagauhughey movie,” which you repeatedly remind him is called Failure to Launch), but you quickly discover that shots of vodka taken every minute or so (Dave literally calls the shots) are not great for beginning drinkers (neither of you drank much in high school. You were, according to general consensus, a loser).

So you two end up taking small sips of vodka, watered down with half of a can of coke. Dave loses his glasses somewhere in the couch but, for the first time in all that you’ve known him, he doesn’t seem to care. The two of you mull over pretty much all of the dumb shit in your lives. Dave raps a little. You discover that your cousin Jade is friends with Dave, and that your friend Rose is, in fact, Dave’s cousin. Small world. Almost like the four of you were destined to be friends. Crazy!

You continue to drink until the whites of Dave’s eyes start to match his blood red irises. It’s at this point that you find yourself leaning in to more closely inspect the freckles adorning his face. You try to count them, but they start to blur together. It’s not until you feel his alcohol-soaked breath mingling with yours that you realize how close your face is to his.

You maintain your incline to his face until you bump into his nose. The blue of your eyes meets the startling red of his and for a moment you’re suspended in them.

And then you feel his lips on yours.

They’re tentative and cautious, just like the rest of Dave has been this summer. You attempt to lean in more, but find you’ve run out of space and just mash your face onto his a little. This stops him for a moment. But after his second of hesitation, the lips on yours suddenly seem hotter, more insistent. You return in kind. You’re both a little sloppy, teeth clashing and lips bruising, but you find that you don’t care. In the back of your mind, you know that you’re both horribly drunk, but you squash that thought as soon as it comes.

Your hands are everywhere, and Dave’s are the same. You distantly think that the two of you are horny, grabby drunks, but you can’t focus on anything for too long because Dave and his cold lips and his warm breath and his sharp, sharp teeth on your neck and that soft spot right by your ear and oh, you are in too deep.

The two of you continue this for some time, kissing and grabbing and even biting a little. But you’re so worn out, drunk and exhausted, that you both end up lying close together on the floor, draped all over each other next to an empty bottle of vodka.

After a while of drifting in and out of darkness, you hear some loud noises and a, “Sweet troll jegus if you two ain’t as drunk as a one-eyed spider on a green god cat.” You think? that Bro has returned. You also think, in your muddled, drunken haze, that what you’ve just heard from him is probably the most Southern thing ever. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the alcohol bottle disappear and amidst some shuffling you can discern a, “fuckin’ lightweights can’t keep their hands off of each other. Goddamn kids started with vodka.”

You can’t remember much of anything past that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah? Yeaaaaah? How about that? Not bad?
> 
> Anyway, I'll post a Bro POV also.  
> Also I looked up, like, Southern sayings and I modified one to be more Homestuck-y. So. If you were wondering what that was about.


	11. Bro: Mess with Your Brother

Your name is Bro Strider, and you think you’ll have a little fun with these two dumpass kids. After finding them passed out on the floor in a tangle of limbs, you had considered trying to get them on a couch or a bed or somewhere halfway decent to sleep. But Dave tried to kick you when you attempted to move him, so you were satisfied with just draping a blanket over them.  
In the morning, you’re up at about 8:30 to make scrambled eggs and bacon. You have to go out to the store to buy the ingredients because as it turns out, you only have weaponry in your fridge. Who knew?

It takes a little while, but the two finally rouse at the smell of coffee brewing. They look a bit confused; you’re not sure how much either one remembers. Seems like they were pretty drunk last night. However, you _do_ notice Dave’s refusal to cast his eyes towards John’s conspicuously bruised neck.

They sit down to eat, uncharacteristically quiet, and you busy yourself washing a breakfast pan. You suppress a smirk as you say over your shoulder, “Egbert, those are some nasty marks on your neck. Fall down a flight of stairs or something?” You turn fully towards the table to observe their reactions.

You’re not disappointed. Dave squeaks a little and flushes a deep red. John looks utterly bewildered. Clearly he hadn’t been aware of anything on his neck. He rubs his neck absently as he answers, “Stairs?” He’s clearly distracted. “No, no. I think Dave warned me about those…” Narrowing his eyes, he grabs his phone and opens up the camera app to examine his neck. His eyes widen as he discovers the screaming discoloration on his skin.

You don’t stick around this time to watch them work it out. You don’t want to be caught in the middle of something. As silently as you can (which is pretty damn silently), you retreat and book it to your room to adjust your latest batch of smuppet chat room AI's.


	12. John: Refuse to Leave the Closet

Your name is John Egbert, and you’re doing your best to maintain your increasingly awkward friendship with Dave Strider. You’re not one hundred percent clear on the details of what happened in your drunken stupor, but the two of you woke up with tangled limbs and bruised lips. You’ve both avoided talking about it, and it’s only made things more awkward.

It all comes to a head one day. You’ve finished up with work and Dave has pesterchummed you to, “come over as soon as possible fucking emergency”. Naturally, you rush over to see what’s up.

Dave buzzes you up and you sprint your way up the stairs. Breathing heavily, you make your way up to the apartment you've been spending so much time at recently. You reach the door, and before you can even raise your hand to rap at the painted-white wood, it swings open and you are greeted with a pair of shades and an unreadable expression.

"Dave! What's wrong? Are you okay?" you ask, almost frantic. He looks alright, but better to be safe than sorry.

However, he just shifts his weight uncomfortably and mutters, "I accidentally stabbed Li'l Cal."

Your first thought is a resounding, "Shit!" Your second thought is, "How?" And your third thought is something about the old horror movie series, Chucky. Dolls, man. You gotta watch out for them.

Dave lets you into the apartment. You peer around, looking for signs of his latest fuck-up.  
It doesn't take you long to spot the creepy puppet, especially since there is currently a sword protruding from his chest. Dave takes off his glasses and you make eye contact for a second. There’s actual fear in his eyes. You're surprised he's even letting you see his eyes; he seems pretty insecure about them.

"It... it's not that bad!" you try. He gives you a droll, unbelieving stare. Amending your statement, you offer, "I know how to sew. I can try to fix him."

He shifts his jaw, weighing his options. "Bro will find out no matter what," he says. He glances at Li'l Cal, like he's worried the puppet is going to snitch. It's a very real possibility. "But... if you want to try to stitch him back up… I’m not going to stop you..."

You’re not really sure what he’s so scared of. Bro? Surely he would be understanding, right? After all, it’s just a puppet. Dave’s behavior disconcerts you. What in his life has led him to be so afraid of his Bro? Hm.

You tell him that you'd be more than happy to help, and you ask if he has a needle and thread. After some rummaging through Bro's stuff ("hes gonna kill me anyway so mooching off his smuppet sewing materials cant make it worse"), the two of you pull out some white thread. You sew Li'l Cal back up as best you can while Dave fetches a fresh shirt free of sword lacerations from the inexplicable closet Li'l Cal has in Bro's room.

It doesn't look terrible, and anyone other than Bro probably wouldn't notice. As it is, though, all you can do is hope. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to go,” he mutters. “I’m supposed to save your goofy ass from doing something dumb and suicidal, not the other way around.” You don’t say anything back. You think he’s being a bit of a drama queen.

Presently, the two of you hear steps approaching the apartment and the jingling of keys as Bro makes his way in. You're not sure what to do, but Dave grabs your arm and drags you to their broom closet. You don’t know why they have a broom closet since they never clean. Although it’s dark, you can make out a bust of Charles Dutton and a single bucket and mop. You don't have the capacity to find the Striders any stranger at this point.

You hear Bro enter and your breath catches. He is audibly muttering to himself, or maybe to Li'l Cal, and after a second you hear a loud, "Shit!" followed by a, "DAVE! Did you stab Li'l Cal while you were trying to rap AGAIN?!!" Your eyes widen a little at "again", but you say nothing. Not that you could without being caught.

Dave hisses, almost silently. It’s dark, but you can see that he’s staring with wide eyes at something behind you. It takes you a second to realize that, in the dark closet, you shouldn't be able to see him at all. You shift as quietly as you can and find that the door to the closet hasn't been fully closed. Oops. Bro is approaching now; for once, his footsteps are heavy and audible. Your eyes meet Dave's and he looks like he might collapse from anxiety. Bro has stopped walking now, and you can hear him rest his hand on the door handle.

You can't think what else to do, so you stop thinking. You let your natural instinct take over; in this case, you natural instinct is to grab Dave by the back of his neck and kiss him hard. He makes a small squeaking noise just as the door opens. For some reason, though, you just keep kissing him. You had originally planned to simply peck Dave to distract Bro from the matter at hand (a terrible plan), but Dave is melting against your lips and his fingers have twined into the belt loops on your jeans and honestly you forget for a second about anything else.

You forget, that is, until Bro clears his throat and you and Dave are left stock-still and very red. You hope to all hell’s end that Bro has forgotten about Li'l Cal. Bro seems to consider the two of you for a second before grunting, "Dave, stop rapping with Li'l Cal when your katana is equipped. And if you two are gonna fuck, don't do it in the Dutton closet. Not to kink shame, but Charles Dutton? That's a little weird, even for me." And almost as an afterthought, "And use protection, for God's sake." With that, he's gone.

Dave sighs with relief before looking back at you and realizing that his hands are still very much on your hips and that your fingers are still very warm on the back of his neck. And yet, neither of you pulls away. Before you can even think to say anything, Dave whispers, "if I make a coming out of the closet joke right now, will you be mad?"

You laugh and knock him on the shoulder. He rocks back on his heels a second, but you snatch at his waist and pull him back in close. He rests his forehead against yours and you find yourselves kissing again.

You find that you can't bring yourself to say anything about "no homo." Besides the fact that you are literally kissing another man, it clearly no longer applies to you (honestly, it probably never has, but you had always refused to think of yourself as anything but straight before), and you've more than grown out of the infantile refutation. And although you're loathe to think it while your tongue is fitting so nicely against the backs of Dave's teeth, you can't help but muse that your father would be proud of you for this little show of maturity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Misleading title much? 
> 
> Anyway, the smol children have finally succumbed to the gay. Or the bi/pan, whatever you wanna call them. Point is, they made out in a closet and I made a bad pun about it.
> 
> Okay, so this is where I catch up to where I'm still writing. I'll update as soon as I finish the next chapter, which is longer and also very gay. Yay! But for real, I'll probably update tomorrow or the day after. Or today, maybe, but don't get your hopes up!


	13. Dave: Build a Dam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HAHA you bitches didn't think I was going to ever update, did you?
> 
> I mean, that would be a reasonable assumption because it's been at least a year,
> 
> and i started this fic like three years ago,
> 
> ahhhhhhh
> 
> BUT ANYWAY HERE'S AN UPDATE and i'm sorry for calling you all bitches just now i know it's a misogynistic slur and i didn't mean it that way and also i love you all if anyone has stuck through with this fic which i know varies in quality god bless you thank you

Your name is Dave Strider, and you live a John Egbert appreciation life. You’ve never had much of a taste for the bulbous bottoms of the smuppets scattered throughout your abode, but you sure enjoy the plush rump of John Egbert. You can’t seem to stop looking at it. Addiction is a powerful thing.

You resist the urge to express your admiration to him. You fail miserably.

This, coupled with your hand on John's ass, is more than enough to earn you a kiss. Bro's been out for a few hours and said not to wait up. In all honesty, he's probably getting it on with John's cousin Jake. You prefer not to think about it. You do, a lot, but it’s not intentional. It’s one of those invasive thoughts that keeps you up at night when you just want to dream of apple juice and cool robots. Ugh.

Anyway.

The two of you have all night to kill, and you have an idea about what you'd like to do. However, you really don't want to pressure John into anything. Since you kissed in the broom closet, the two of you have made out extensively and given each other mildly-awkward-but-still-enjoyable handjobs on the couch a couple of times when Bro was out. Neither of you have said anything to Bro about your dubious relationship, and he hasn’t asked. You secretly think it’s because he doesn’t want to prompt any questions about his relationship with Jake. BLUH. Invasive thought again! Gross.

So for now, John has dragged you onto the couch to watch National Treasure for the billionth time. You don’t know how John isn’t tired of Nic Cage’s rough-hewn mug yet, but you don’t say anything about it.

For a little while, at least. After about 15 minutes you decide that you’ve reached your limit and start whining. John shushes you good-naturedly, but you persist. You know the night can still be salvaged. Maybe the two of you could watch something decent. You’re up for anything that doesn’t feature the grizzly visage of Nicolas Cage or the smug douchebaggery that is Justin Bartha.

Yes, you could undoubtedly watch something decent. However, the more you think about it, the more you think of activities that your time would be better spent on. You are curled up next to John already, soaking up the heat he seems to radiate. You nuzzle your face into his chest. His shirt is soft and he smells like cake. You’re not sure how, but the sweet scent that he claims is from his father’s baking affinity seems to have followed him all the way to Texas.

You’re not complaining.

The saccharine fragrance of John’s skin sparks an idea in you. Craning your neck towards his face, you press your lips against the soft skin under his jaw. Ticklish as always, he giggles, but his focus is still on the screen. Ever persistent, you continue, nuzzling into his neck and gently kissing the warm flesh you find there. When you are met with no more response than a light hum, you increase your ministrations. However, John takes no notice.

Stubborn now, you decide to resort to more underhanded tactics. Raising your face so that your lips are next to his ear, you murmur in a low voice, “You smell like cake, y’know? Makes me wonder… how you taste.” Somewhat startled out of his Cage-filled reverie, John turns to look at you just as you slowly drag your tongue up his throat. This is campy as hell. You’re being ironic, but you know that’s not how he’s taking it. Does that cancel out the irony, you wonder?

Your thoughts are interrupted by a small noise and you're disproportionately satisfied at the squeak he’s made. Smirking, you continue along the side of his neck, peppering him with small kisses. You find a particularly sweet spot under his ear and suck lightly at his skin. You’re rewarded with a small mewl. Taking encouragement in this, you press on, nipping and sucking at his neck as he gasps quietly. You relish the fact that his attentions have turned from the flatscreen to you. Most would say it’s stupid to be jealous of a movie. Most haven’t met John Egbert.

For which you are glad, by the way, because you wouldn’t like to compete for his affections. You don’t see how anyone could resist his dorky charm. Well, maybe they could. He’s kind of a doofus. But that’s the thing—he’s ridiculous, but he caught you, didn’t he? What does that mean, then? You muse on that as you work your way up his throat, finally landing on his lips, bitten back by his big teeth in his Strider-fueled sexual distress. The sound of Nicolas Cage’s zany plotting having faded away (you can’t tell if you’ve tuned it out or if someone sat on the remote and the TV is on mute or something), you find that you can’t pull your gaze away from the deep blue of John Egbert’s eyes. For a moment, you lose yourself in them and don’t quite realize your proximity until you feel the bridge of your shades pushed almost painfully against your nose by the bridge of his glasses. 

He says something to you. You are stuck in the world of blue that is his eyes and you can’t decipher what he says. You feel like a Lana Del Rey song. Why did that occur to you? You don’t even like Lana Del Rey. Well, you’d never admit it. You actually have a Spotify playlist of her entire discography, but it’s set to secret and you turn on Private Session every time you listen to it so your avid Spotify following doesn’t see. You’re momentarily lost in this thought until he says it again. “Dave. Dave,” he says. “Dave, can I see your eyes again?”

You start, a little bit surprised. Your eyes? You don’t like people to see your eyes. It invites a lot of unanswerable questions. You’re not albino, goddamnit. John has seen your eyes before, though, on a select few occasions when you were tired, or drunk, or scared, or… otherwise occupied. He’s never asked you any untoward questions about the strange pigmentation, for which you are incredibly grateful.

Though caught off guard, you have no reservations about taking off your glasses in front of John. This decided, you nod at him, and he gently reaches out and transfers your shades from their usual spot on your face to the new terrain that is your living room floor. The two of you are tangled in a slightly awkward position on the couch, so you shift until you are straddling his lap. Transfixed by your gaze, John sits complacently and stares into your eyes. 

You smile back at him, holding his round face in your hands and stroking the soft skin of his cheek with your thumb. You lean in once more to kiss him and he melts against you. Kissing him deeply, you feel as though you’ve been holding your breath your whole life and only now with his help you’re learning to breathe. Is that too cheesy, you wonder? Yes. You feel like a goddamn Mariah Carey song. What’s with all of this feeling like songs bullshit, you wonder? Then you feel his warm hands sweep up and down your back to rest just above your hips, and you forget Mariah Carey for a second. His skin is hot against yours, and you suddenly feel a desperate need to be as close to him as possible with nothing to keep you apart. Accordingly, you move your hands from his face to the hem of his shirt and tug at it, asking for permission to remove it. He seems to understand what you mean, and he pulls it off himself. You make quick work of your shirt as well, and pull yourself closer to him to feel his bare chest against yours.

You hiss at the warmth of it. John wraps his arms around your waist to keep you pressed up against him. You run your cold hands over his warm shoulders and grin at the feeling. John ducks his head and a second later, you feel his big teeth, which so endeared him to you in the first place, nibbling at your neck. At first, it tickles, and you laugh. But he continues, biting and sucking persistently at your throat, and it feels damn good. You always knew those chompers were good for something. An especially rough bite leaves you gasping and grasping at his back, and John takes pity on your neck to kiss your open lips. You respond eagerly, lips and limbs tangling with his.

Your eyes are half-lidded with desire, and when he presses kisses to your chin and jaw, you can feel John’s eyelashes fluttering against your skin. He breathes slowly and exhales warmth on your skin. Assaulted by a multitude of tiny Egbert kisses, the best you can manage are quick, shallow breaths and tiny whimpers. As John’s mouth explores the delicate skin under your jaw, his hands travel down the expanse of your chest and slow as they reach your stomach. His hands slip to the button on your jeans and he pauses, looking up at you and biting his lip. All you can produce is a nod and a weak “Mm-hmm.”

He unbuttons your jeans and attempts to shimmy them down your thighs. Unimpressed, you roll your eyes, trying to sound nonchalant through your breathlessness. “Egbert, I’m literally straddling your crotch right now. How exactly do you propose you take off my pants in this situation?” At this, John gives you a bashful look, whether from his poor decision-making skills or the mention of his crotch, you can’t tell. Probably both. You peck him on the nose before awkwardly sliding off him and standing to pull your jeans off. As you do so, he quickly shucks off his cargo shorts. Really? Cargos? Is he a dad? Wait, no. Bad line of thinking while you’re taking your pants off. Once the thought is in your head, you can’t get the word “daddy” out of your head. Yuck, you are not into that. Are you? Nope. Denial alarms blaring loudly, you stand for a few seconds, cringing at your own thoughts and trying to get back into the mindset. John asks you what’s wrong, and you manage to snap out of it. Crisis averted.

You approach the couch John is sitting on in an attempt to reclaim your spot on his lap. This is your seat now. Fucking Rosa Parks up in this bitch, you’ll sit where you want. And John Egbert’s crotch is the front of the bus. Aw fuck, are you seriously thinking about Rosa Parks right now? That’s a terrible metaphor for this situation. You have got to stop with the mood killers. Speaking of, he stops you before you can take up residence in his lap again. Cocking your head in confusion, you start to ask him what he’s doing– and oh dear Lord his mouth is on your dick when did he get there how did this happen fffffuck. You don’t know where your boxers went but his hands are on your hips and yours are tugging lightly at his hair and you can feel his big teeth on you a little too much but Jesus fuck if John Egbert doesn’t know how to use his tongue. His wide eyes say “I’ve never done this before and I feel a little like Liv Tyler for some inexplicable reason, probably because she’s been the pinnacle of my sexual fantasies since age 10.” Maybe they say that. You couldn’t really say,

Because wow,

Wow, you can’t really say much of anything,

Or think it, for that matter

Oh,

boy

That, that John Egbert guy is something, huh,

Okay, wow, you normally just stream-of-consciousness everything but,

Geez,

You sort of feel like someone’s built a dam in your brain river,

Is that a thing?

Woah,,

Who cares?

And that’s all you can really think, in response to your own delusional ramblings,

Who cares when you—

Wow,

—When you’ve got John Egbert’s mouth on you like this,

?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaand i copped out of real smut because i was hitting a wall and it was hard and it felt ooc and this was better for these stunted adolescents imo.
> 
> i hope i can keep updating this we'll see i'm heading into senior year sooooo who knows


	14. Bro: Be an Asshole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's another one cause I had it written. I think maybe I'll just have a couple more chapters to wrap it up? I'll try to finish it soon and end this living hell for all of us.

Your name is Bro Strider and your brother won’t stop making weird faces at you any time Jake English is mentioned. It’s infuriating. What two fully-grown, consenting men get up to in their free time is none of his business. And anyway, who’s he to talk? You know he and Egbert are messin’ around any time you leave the house.

So. One morning at breakfast—John has stayed over yet again under the questionable guise of “best bros”—you comment nonchalantly, “So, Dave, John, do anything fun last night? Watch a movie, play a game? Fuck each other in the ass?”

(You know they don’t fuck each other in the ass. They’re so little and vanilla. It’s funny, though.)

John chokes on his breakfast. (See? Funny.) Dave glowers at you from behind his sunglasses and retorts, “Oh, shut up, Bro. You’re such a fucking hypocrite. I mean, everyone knows that you’re screwing John’s cousin.”

John apparently did not know this, and chokes on his breakfast a little bit more. None of either of their businesses. They don’t work in this office. They didn’t apply for a job here. They don’t get to know the private goings-on of this workplace.

It’s still kind of funny, though.

Dave ignores John and the difficulty he is having with his breakfast and finishes his short tirade with, “So eat my entire ass, Bro.”

You narrow your eyes at him before responding, “Oh, I don’t think I need to. I think John a’ready took care of that last night.”

(You know they haven’t done any ass play, either. Dave is probably too traumatized from smuppet stuff for that. Is that your fault? Have you fucked up Dave irreparably? Eh. Still funny.)

It was quiet before, but now the silence is deafening. John stares, wide-eyed, into his cereal bowl like he's trying to disappear. You hear him whisper to himself, "I never even touched a butthole in my life! That’s a lie. Does this count as slander? Defamation of character? Oh God, my life is a lie. I’m gay. This is my wake-up call. Time for Jesus."

Dave glares at you, but concedes that it was a, "pretty solid burn. Someone put out that fire."

You want to laugh, but John looks so lost and upset that you wonder if it would be mean.

You laugh anyway, and exit the room.

Yep. Still funny.


End file.
